Chapter 4

Hogan was getting used to the odd looks he drew as they walked down the street. There was more traffic now; more people were out as lunch time drew near. It served to remind him of the empty state of his own stomach, and he grinned. "Leutnant Weber," he called softly, drawing Karl's surprised gaze. "D'you think we might have a spot of lunch? I find myself feeling a bit peckish," he explained in his best British accent, which, as Newkirk had been at pains to inform him, was not good at all. It did make the German laugh, drawing even more disapproving looks their way.

"Ja, Hogan; we can eat. I, too, am hungry," Karl agreed, damping his laughter. "I know a good place, not too expensive, but the food is plentiful."

Hogan's grin widened, a devilish light in his eyes. "Nah. How 'bout someplace good, someplace you wouldn't normally be able to go on a junior lieutenant's pay? It's my treat," he added, waiting for the objections and demands for explanation.

"And where would you get that sort of money?" Weber began, as expected, only to pause and begin to look panicked. "Hogan, what did you do...?"

"Calm down, Karl. I haven't done anything. We had some funds stashed," Hogan explained, his voice soft so as not to carry beyond themselves. "I just liberated a bit of it."

"From Impound."

"Well, yeah. It's all real currency, though; none of the counterfeit stuff. Don't worry; no one'll miss it. They didn't even realize it was there," Hogan soothed, thoroughly enjoying himself.

"Hogan!" Weber protested, his voice a low cry.

The American's grin only widened. "Now you sound just like Sgt. Schultz used to," he chuckled gently; then his grin softened a bit. "Y'know, I miss the old guy. He really did mean well. Seriously, Karl," he returned to the topic, "it's okay. I'll 'fess up to General Mannheim tonight. It's just nice to have some money of my own for a while, y'know? And it's not like it's stolen or anything. Newkirk won most of it from the guards during those forbidden card games in the barracks."

"Hogan!" Karl repeated, this time laughing in protest at his outrageous companion. "You are incorrigible!

"Here; we go in here," he added, indicating an expensive-looking tailoring shop they'd just reached, catering to the Luftwaffe.

"Hogan?!" a familiar-sounding voice echoed from within the shop. "They haven't shot you yet?"

Hogan looked around alertly, then grinned at the surprise on the face of the portly German he found. "Why, General Burkhalter; what a surprise. Good to see you, sir." He knew better than to add insult to this meeting, so he refrained from offering his hand.

"What are you doing loose in Berlin, Hogan?" Burkhalter would not be sidetracked.

"I'm not loose, sir. This is Leutnant Weber, General Mannheim's aide. He's my escort today."

"I did hear something about General Mannheim, but I did not believe it." Burkhalter pursed his lips, staring thoughtfully at the American officer.

Whatever he'd meant to say next was lost as the shop's owner hurried over. «What is this Trash doing in here?» he demanded angrily. «You are its Keeper, I hear, Herr Leutnant; remove it immediately!»

«You will not speak of a defeated enemy Officer that way in my presence, Herr Ostlinger! Especially not this one!» the outraged General snapped.

«I will not permit such Scum in my Shop!» Ostlinger insisted, feeling that all Germans - the Master Race, after all - should stand together against such defeated weaklings. «Those Animals, those Cowards, are not welcome here!»

«You had best understand that Defeat does not automatically make a Man a Coward.» Burkhalter's voice grew softer, a sure sign that he was about to explode. «And this man never stopped fighting until his Side capitulated, despite being a Prisoner. But, since you do not feel his Custom is desirable, I am sure that he will be very happy to leave, won't you, Hogan? As will I! Good Day, Herr Ostlinger. Be sure that I will inform my Friends, also.

«Hogan, Leutnant Weber, komm' mit.»

Both men gaped as Burkhalter stormed out of the shop, but they quickly followed him out into the street, where they nearly ran into him, for he had waited just outside the door. Already the extreme redness was fading from his face, for he was a man who calmed as quickly as he became angered. Weber was wary, uncertain of what to expect from this Luftwaffe stranger, but Hogan seemed completely at his ease.

"So, tell me, Hogan," Burkhalter nearly purred, an unexpected sound from such a large man, "what are you doing, wandering around Berlin? I had heard several days ago that you were to be shot."

"Actually, that's true," Hogan admitted easily. "General Mannheim decided that I might be more useful as his personal pilot, and whatever else he needed, than as a target for riflemen who needed no practice. As he said, he can always have me shot later if I irritate him too much." He allowed himself a slight smile at that, for General Burkhalter, one of his personal enemies for so long, actually laughed in appreciation at that statement. "The lieutenant here is taking me around to get kitted out, on the General's orders," he went on. "I'm not sure why we were at this particular shop, though; I already have uniforms on order from Herr Drapner's shop."

"You need flight suits, Hogan," Weber volunteered the information. "Unser general felt that you would be more comfortable in a slightly modified cut, rather than the regulation Luftwaffe suit. Herr Ostlinger was reputed to be good at altering patterns to personal tastes..." his voice trailed off as he realized that Burkhalter might take offense at the unintentional slight, but the portly general was nodding in agreement.

"Ja, so he is," the senior officer agreed. "He is known for making non-regulation alterations appear to be within standards, and he had many influential clients in the past, so there is a certain prestige to be had, getting uniforms there. But there is no place in Germany for an attitude like his. We have just ended the fighting; we do not need to start again because of stupid insults."

"So, where do you suggest we go instead, General?" Hogan asked, curious now to see where they might be sent, and where Burkhalter himself would now go.

"Why, to his main rival, Herr Strassl, of course," Burkhalter replied with no hesitation. "He is actually a better tailor; he just has not had quite as much...how would you say it? Ah, yes: Snob appeal. Come, I will show you; I will go there myself, now. And perhaps you will have fewer problems if I bring you there, than if you just show up."

"Yeah; I didn't get much of a chance to say that General Mannheim had sent us to the last place," Hogan complained, his good nature restored.

"It would not have done you any good; Ostlinger was already telling me all about it, although he did not mention your name, if he even knew about you. He would have thrown you out if Himmler himself had sent you."

"Although that's no recommendation, really," Hogan laughed at the general's attempt at levity. "Besides, it'd be kind of hard to do that from beyond the grave," he added; then he turned serious. "Why are you being so helpful, General? I know you hate my guts."

"Actually, Hogan, I have a grudging respect for you," Burkhalter admitted, just as seriously. "That was a dangerous path you took, and you hid your tracks well. If it had not been for Klink, I doubt you would have been as successful, but I do not believe you would have been stopped for long. Besides, I enjoyed seeing you frustrate Hochstetter the way you did. You kept him so busy chasing you and your men, he could do little other damage. So, you see, Hogan, you provided a needed service to our people, even though you did considerable damage to the military.

"I doubt we'll ever be friends, but..." Burkhalter paused, not certain if he had said too much.

Hogan just nodded. "No; we'll never be friends," he agreed. "I'll always be 'Hogan' to you, sir. Never first names. But better that than outright enemies. Besides," his eyes twinkled mischievously, "you might set your sister on me in that case."

A dry laugh was his answer. "You and Gertrude would kill each other in no time. I would not do that to either of you.

"Here is Herr Strassl's shop."

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The welcome was genuine, and Hogan felt that this would have been the case even if Burkhalter hadn't been there to smooth the way. He patiently waited until the General had made his needs known and had been seen to; then he steeled himself for a round with this tailor.

He found he needn't have worried; Herr Strassl listened to what Weber had to say about General Mannheim's wishes, then turned to Hogan himself. "I can do as your general wishes quite easily, Hogan," the tailor declared calmly, his English very good. "What are your wishes in this matter? After all, it is you who must wear these clothes."

Hogan thought about this, grateful for being consulted. "Actually, you won't have to modify the flight suits all that much," he decided. "Just give me a bit more room through the shoulders - across the back, actually - and I'll be fine. I could wish for something other than Wehrmacht gray, though." He paused to look over at Weber. "Do you think he'd mind terribly if I changed the color? I realize what he's trying to do, but..."

"I have a few other colors available," the tailor offered hesitantly, "but there is not that much choice. Blue-gray, gray, sand, white, dark blue, and black; that is all. And the sand is too light-weight for all year; it is meant for wear in Afrika."

"You could do them in black?" Hogan leaped at that option, for that was the color he favored, knowing it suited him.

"Hogan, unser General specified gray," Weber protested weakly.

"We could ask him, couldn't we?" Hogan cut him off. "I don't mind the other uniforms; they look good the way he wanted them. But these would look a lot better in black, and no one could possibly mistake me for Luftwaffe in them, either."

"But we need to get these done today," Karl argued, but already he could sense defeat. Hogan hadn't protested the other uniforms this way.

"How about we call him? They should be breaking for lunch by now, shouldn't they? How mad would he get at being interrupted, anyway?" The thought of irritating Mannheim gave Hogan pause---for all of ten seconds. "C'mon, Karl; I really think this will look better. What can it hurt? You can always blame me."

"All right, Hogan; enough. We will call him," the leutnant finally capitulated wearily. "We will interrupt his meeting - his Important Meeting - to discuss the color of your clothing. Then you can explain it to him tonight when he wishes to send me east." But, in his heart, Weber doubted that the general would be too upset; he seemed to consider this brash American as some sort of amusing pet. Who knew but that perhaps he would welcome the interruption for such an inane detail.

Already Hogan was looking at cloth, talking quietly but enthusiastically with the tailor. Thick as thieves they were, Weber thought as he reached for Strassl's telephone.

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The meeting was not going well, and Mannheim could see tempers flaring on all sides of him. The disposition of the unwanted American-born POWs was a hot subject, very emotion-laden. After all, it was due to American intervention that Germany had lost the first World War; many had feared that they would interfere in this one, also. While the US as a whole had not done so, many individuals had come to fight, so now they had to have their fate decided. Not only did the Germans now have to deal with those being held here; there were many still in England who had not been captured. Great Britain, now conquered, did not want those unruly Americans there to cause trouble with the German overlords. So now Mannheim and his fellows had to decided how to deal with them.

Those free-roaming Americans could not be imprisoned for no cause; there were already too many captive Americans for whom Germany had to provide. Nor could they be executed out of hand; that could easily cause a war with the United States, despite the fact that those men had all been declared outlaws for not returning home in 1939. Intelligence had it that the American people were already being fed the lie that all the American POWs had been executed at the end of the war. Neither could they be ignored; not when the American POWs could not be turned loose.

The British Parliament, in their last official act before Germany had taken over the government, had repealed the citizenship of all the American-born people who had moved there and become British citizens, so those POWs couldn't be sent back to England with the native-born repatriates. Additionally, the British politicians were dragging their feet over all the repatriates, both to and from England.

And the men here at this table just got angrier and angrier, no one wanting to budge from his favored opinion and position.

«General Mannheim? A Call for you, sir.»

"Was?!" he demanded angrily, incensed that someone would dare to interrupt this meeting, doubtless with some triviality that could, and should, wait for a better time.

«A Call, Herr General.» The little blonde auxiliary private cringed, dreading the explosion of temper to come, but she was determined to do her duty. «He says he is your Aide. Something about someone named...Hogan?»

That stopped Mannheim in his tracks. Weber and Hogan both knew that this was an important meeting, if not what it was about, and they were out and about Berlin today. Himmel only knew what might have happened. «I will take it in the outer Office,» he announced as he rose and left the conference room as fast as dignity allowed. "Was ist los?" he then demanded of the poor, innocent telephone, concern overriding civility.

"Everything is all right, mein General," Weber hastened to reassure him, in English. "Hogan has a question for you. If you are too busy, if this is a bad time, it can wait..."

The sense of relief that flooded through him made Mannheim go weak in the knees. The girl at the desk hurried to pull a chair over to him, so pale had he gone, but his color suddenly turned an alarming shade of red, and then he started to laugh. "Nein, Karl," he gasped. "You have pulled me out of a meeting gone sour with temper. It is probably just as well, for this gets me out and will let the others calm down. What does Hogan want? I thought I had all of his needs covered on that list I gave you."

"Well, he wants the color changed..."

"Here; let me speak to him," Hogan interrupted, reaching for the phone. Wordlessly, Weber handed it over, amazed still to have his head---no; shocked that the general had laughed at being interrupted. What magic did Hogan command?

Conscious of all the listening ears, Hogan was careful to be polite. "Mein General, I request a change of color for the flight suits. We can get a better price, and I will still be differenced from the Luftwaffe pilots and from free British and American ones."

Ah, Mannheim thought to himself, he spotted that purpose, did he? I must remember, in the future, that he is very sharp. "What color did you desire?" he asked aloud.

"We can get a very good price on black, mein General," Hogan explained, talking around the question. "It is a good wool serge, strong and warm; it was originally woven for SS use, but no one wants it now. And I look good in black, mein General." Yes, that got a chuckle out of him, Hogan noted with relief.

"Anything else, my economy-minded bondsman?" Mannheim asked dryly, fighting to control his laughter.

"Well, I can get a nice set of summer-weights in the sand-tone cotton the Afrika Korps wear; they'd look good, too, with black trim." Which would also make them just enough different from those worn by Afrika Korps pilots.

"You are impossible, Hogan." The general could hold it in no longer. "Go; have them made as you will; so long as it is Luftwaffe-cut, and not American. You will wear a Luftwaffe flight cap, do you hear me? At least once you are outside my aircraft. You may fly in that disreputable brown thing you favor; I will even see if I can find you a new one. Will that suit you, Hogan?"

"How about a bomber-style jacket in black leather?" He couldn't keep that from popping out of his mouth, but Mannheim only laughed the harder.

"Ja, that too. But you will have your old flight boots dyed black. I will only pay for one new pair of boots for you, versteh't?"

"Jawohl, mein General; ich verstehen," Hogan responded, laughing himself.

"Go; enjoy your day. Eat if you have not; I will reimburse Weber for both of you. I will be late tonight, I fear. You can tell me of your adventures then, ja?" It was almost like talking to a child, Mannheim realized in shock, an older child that he could relate to. He'd best not fall into that trap, not with Hogan.

"Jawohl, mein General," Hogan repeated, thinking much the same thing, wondering if the German felt that way, also. "Auf wiedersehn."

Weber was staring at him in awe as he hung up the phone. "How did you do that?" he wanted to know. "He was not even a little angry!"

"I don't know," Hogan shrugged. "He says I can have the black, and the sand for summer wear. And all the rest, plus he's going to get me a new crush cap." Now he even felt like a child, staring at a pile of presents under the tree at Christmas, knowing they were all for him. He gave himself a mental shake and went to bargain with the tailor.

Not long afterward, he found himself fitted for three sets of blacks, as he thought of them, and two sets of the summer-weight sand-tone. Both sets would be counter-trimmed: Black with sand-colored piping, and the sand with a lightweight black trim. At pfennigs the yard, he bought five large bolts of the heavy black serge, all the tailor had in stock, knowing that the man needed to get rid of the cloth that no one wanted anymore, not even the civilians. It reminded people too much of times they'd all rather forget. Rob liked it, though, for it was well made. In addition, he figured that, if the General got someone else to be co-pilot for him, the cloth would be available for matching uniforms.

Weber laughed when he voiced this thought aloud, explaining that, at one time, one's status had been judged by how well his carriage-horses had been matched. This only made Hogan laugh harder.

What pleased the American most, however, was the fact that he'd paid for all of that cloth, and paid to have all his own flight suits made, out of his own money. It cost his "controller" nothing, and that had somehow become very important.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

"I'm not going anywhere else until after we eat," Rob said, in a voice that brooked no argument, once they were again outside on the now-crowded streets.

Truth be told, Karl found himself just as hungry. "Ja, we can go eat now," he agreed. "There is not much more to be gotten, and it does grow late. We will go..."

"...to someplace you've always wanted to go, but could never afford," Hogan completed the sentence. "I've had too much prison food lately, and I want something special. Call it a celebration of life if you want, but I've got money right now, and I mean to spend some of it on needless luxuries, like great food. I'm sure you know someplace like that."

"Well, ja," Weber slowly answered. "There was a place I went to once, with mein general, but I did not get to eat there. It looked very good, even during the war. It was also very fancy."

"Let me guess: You didn't get to eat, 'cause you were dancing attendance on the general, right?" Weber's nod answered him sufficiently. "Okay; we'll go there. Is it far from here?"

"Nein; not so far that we cannot walk."

"Will we need reservations, do you think?" Hogan fretted briefly. "Bet they give you a hard time over letting me in---D'you think they'll even serve me?"

"Hogan, you worry for nothing," Weber chided his charge. "They will let you in and serve you, for you are with me, you have your papers, and alles ist en ordnung. And we should not need reservations for a late lunch; only at dinner is it so crowded." He indicated direction and started walking; perforce, Hogan followed, careful not to jostle any of the passing Germans. Several seemed almost about to spit at him, only to reconsider and go on their respective ways with only muttered curses at his back. He couldn't help wondering if it would be any better if he'd been wearing one of his new uniforms, though he doubted it. Time was what was needed, for old hurts to heal somewhat. He could only imagine what attitudes would be like in the cities which had been heavily bombed, such as Hamburg. Berlin had been out of the range of most British bombers until late in the war.

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The men waiting around the table gaped as Mannheim returned to the conference room smiling. They had had time, during his absence, to compare notes, and for those in the know to inform the rest that the "Hogan" mentioned was one of the new bondsmen, a former POW and infamous saboteur and spy. Imaginations had run rampant over what had necessitated this phone call, considering the reputation of the man mentioned by that little receptionist.

But Mannheim just smiled at his waiting confederates as he seated himself. «All right; where were we?» he calmly asked, riffling through his notes.

«There was a Problem?"» Generaloberst Sigmund Meister, representing Abwehr, made bold to ask.

«Not really,» Mannheim answered absently, then looked up, chuckling. «Hogan - You know who he is, ja? - Well, he desired a change in the Color I'd selected for his Flight Suits. Most properly, he put forth his Reasons for my consideration - and amusement, I might add - before going ahead with the alteration.»

«Flight Suits? He disturbed your Meeting over his Clothing?» Generalmajor Helmut Boffer, Internal Security, gasped, shocked almost beyond belief.

«Ach, you have to know Hogan to understand,» Mannheim chuckled again. «I imagine my poor Aide, Leutnant Weber, sweated Bullets before allowing that Call to be made. It was really quite heartless of me to send him out alone with Hogan today, but we really had to hammer all this out.»

«If that man is so dangerous...» Generaloberst Alfred Grafner of the Luftwaffe began, but he paused as Mannheim shook his head.

«He is no longer dangerous,» the latter explained, «but he has a wicked sense of Humor, and a Stubborn Streak that is unbelievable. Poor Weber wouldn't stand a Chance against him if he didn't choose to cooperate. Even the Gestapo at their worst couldn't break that Man.

«But, come: Hogan's Problem is solved, so we can return to ours, nicht wahr?»

«I believe that I would like to meet this Prodigal, who can tax you with trivialities and still have you smiling, Sebastian.» Field Marshall Ehrhart Berrer quietly remarked. «Is this possible?»

«Ja, of course, Herr Field Marshall,» a surprised Mannheim responded immediately. «I could bring him...»

«Nein, there is no urgent Need. A social Visit is all that I had in mind,» Berrer quickly soothed his rattled junior.

«Ah. Well, then, we dine most Evenings in the Officers' Mess; perhaps you would care to join us there?» Mannheim cautiously offered.

«That would be ideal. Around 1900? Or is that too early?»

«That will be fine, Herr Field Marshall. Provided, of course, that we can wrap up here. Of course, the rest would be welcome, also, nicht wahr?»

«Certainly all of you are invited to join us,» Berrer confirmed, speaking to the group as a whole now. «From what I have heard of this Man Hogan, it will be an entertaining Evening and not to be missed. But, as you say, we have Work to do. So, Gentlemen...»

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The restaurant was busy, but there were available tables. The maitre-d' looked disapprovingly down his nose at Hogan, but he didn't demand to see his papers. The table to which he guided Weber and Hogan was in a back corner, dim and somewhat secluded by a large potted plant on a stand. The way he asked if this would be a satisfactory table left little room for hope that they would be offered better, so Weber sighed and agreed that, ja, this would be fine. He looked apologetically at Hogan after the man had left, but the American just grinned at him. "That was actually better than I expected, Karl," he told his escort. "I mean, they haven't taken the silver off the table, or the good crystal, so they're not afraid that the barbarous..." He fell silent as a waiter approached, menus in hand.

«You can translate for the Englander, ja, mein Herr?» the man asked Weber.

«There will be no Language Problems,» Weber assured him as the water glasses were filled; then the waiter withdrew.

"Hmm; good selection here," Hogan commented as he scanned the elegantly printed menu. "This'll be real beef, too; not horsemeat. Hope it's as good as it sounds."

"It should, at these prices!" Weber muttered unhappily, seeing a month's pay disappearing at one meal.

"Relax; this is my treat, remember?" Hogan absently said as he studied the menu further. "Even if it weren't, General Mannheim said he'd reimburse you for the meal when I spoke to him. We're actually under orders to go eat somewhere, Karl."

"Maybe, but I doubt he had this in mind when he told you that," the hot retort came quickly.

Hogan just grinned. "Come on, now, Karl; don't you think he knows me better than that? This is just the sort of place I'd go, given carte blanche, and he knows it. My guess is, this is just what he expects. So relax and enjoy it; no telling when we'll get out like this again."

Weber muttered a bit more, but had his order ready by the time the waiter reappeared. The man had obviously expected the leutnant to order for the Englander colonel and was taken by surprise when Hogan ordered for himself in perfect German. They left him wondering just who the man in the RAF uniform was, Hogan grinning knowingly at his confusion.

The meal, once it had arrived and had been consumed, was definitely worth the outrageous prices, Hogan later decided as they left the place to finish their errands.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

They were at their last scheduled destination, a shop dealing in uniform accessories, and Hogan was at his worst. He didn't really like the forage cap he was supposed to wear, and the high-peaked hat for his dress uniform looked too stark without any device. He wanted his old crush cap.

Weber was at his wits' end. Hogan had found gloves that fit with no trouble, and the appropriate belts had been added to the pile of goods. He had even agreed to two white silk flying scarves for the American, for he'd heard that most pilots who could afford them preferred to have them, for comfort's sake. But the American was fussing so over that blank cap... Then inspiration struck. "You are a pilot; why not put your pilot's wings on the hat?" he asked as Hogan was about to throw it down in disgust.

Hogan stopped in mid-tantrum, and the worried shopkeeper sighed in relief. "What?" the American asked, for he'd not clearly heard the suggestion.

"Wear your pilot's wings on your dress cap," Weber repeated, more pleased with the idea the longer he contemplated it. "Unser general will not object, I am certain, for that is the main excuse he gave for taking you, Hogan. The cap badges indicate the wearer's branch of service, and you are a pilot; just not Luftwaffe." He fell silent, watching as Hogan fished a set of American wings out of his pocket and held them up to the front of the cap. He had to agree with Hogan's assessment, as the American's frown showed: those wings were too small. It had seemed like such a good solution...Suddenly, he reached for some Luftwaffe wings and held them out. "Try these, Rob; they are larger, and you do fly for Germany now, for unser general."

Wordlessly, Hogan reached out to accept the German pilots' wings. It still rankled just a bit, but, as he held them up against the cap, he had to agree that they would work. Slowly he nodded, then dredged up a grin for his escort. "That'll work just fine," he agreed, and chuckled to see Weber relax. "I'm a real bear this afternoon, aren't I?" he asked, knowing the German wouldn't agree, even though it was the truth.

Weber's response was surprisingly diplomatic. "We are both tired, for it has been a long day," he told the American flyer. "We are nearly done with the list, though. Then we can go back to quarters and rest. There is an extra bunk in my quarters, as I have no roommate, so you need not return to your cell if you do not wish to."

Hogan was touched by the offer. "I'd have thought you'd be glad to be rid of me at last," he said, feeling rather like a heel for the fuss he'd just made.

But Weber was having none of it. "You have been under much stress lately; your life is turned upside-down, and you must hide your anger and disappointment, swallow them. That you have not objected more is nothing short of a miracle of control, I would say." Weber looked a little uncomfortable, but forced himself to continue. "I think that, under other conditions, I would have been proud to call you a friend, Hogan. Perhaps someday you will be able to think kindly of me in return.

"Come; is there anything else you think you may need? It grows late, and we will need to get back, to rest before dinner."

Old habit made Hogan glance at his wrist to confirm the time; he grimaced at the old watch which rode there now instead of his aviator's chronometer. "You know," he considered his words, "if I'm gonna be flying the General around Europe, I'm gonna need some good nav aids. A new chronometer, for starters. And logbooks, and a compass, and a plotter and charts, and other things, too. Tools and equipment no one here will be eager to sell to me."

"They have good watches here," Karl answered, looking over a nearby display. "We can ask where to obtain the other things you need. At worst, we can put those items on hold until we get the general's authorization. For you, he will give it; he approves of you."

"Yeah...Hey, this one's Swiss-made!" His attention was caught by the chronometers now. Pricey, yes, but he could easily afford it. Quality was never cheap, anyway, nor was safety. After careful consideration, he finally settled on a black and chrome one, insisting on paying for it himself. Matching luggage was added to his selections, including a hatbox and a boot-bag. The quality available here was excellent; no doubt the shopkeeper had heard Mannheim's name and rank mentioned and had brought out his best wares.

Aviator's tools would have to wait; they would have to go out to the airport district, and time did not allow that long a trip, even by cab. Delivery arrangements made, Hogan and Weber began their long, weary trek back to their quarters and a well-deserved rest.

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1730 hours. Sebastian Mannheim let himself into his quarters and stopped in shock, appalled at the pile of parcels heaped in the middle of his sitting-room floor, including a very nice set of matched luggage, with the initials REH monogrammed on each piece. He swallowed hard, once, estimating what the total bill for all this would come to, and sighed. He had set Hogan loose, after all, and had imposed no limits. He could afford this, for he usually lived rather frugally, considering his rank and pay-grade. Most of his pay was sent home to his wife, who lived just as simply. Hogan was expensive right now, but it would get better, he consoled himself. After all, he'd needed everything, having been captured with nothing but the clothes on his back, now worn to little more than rags.

There was a knock at the door; it was a delivery boy, uniformed, carrying a garment bag. He accepted the bag and tipped the boy, then turned to the phone.

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«LeutnantWeber speaking...Ja, mein General...nein, mein General.He is here with me...Jawohl,mein General; we will be there soonest. Ende.»

Hogan stretched wearily, grimacing as unaccustomed muscles protested the long day just past. His left shoulder itched miserably, too, but he knew he couldn't scratch or rub it. "Was ist?" he asked as Karl set the receiver back down in its cradle.

"Unser general is back," Karl answered, stifling his own yawn. "Your purchases are there, in his quarters; he wishes us to come remove them, then dress for dinner. We are expecting guests at mess tonight, it seems."

"Any idea who?" Hogan asked as he climbed from the bunk and reached for his shirt. "Be right back," he added, heading for the door and the latrine up the hallway.

Weber met him there, shaving kit in hand, at the sight of which Rob realized he probably needed a shave himself, if there would be company for dinner; bad enough that his British dress blues were a bit tattered. His shave would have to wait, though, until he returned to his cell.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

It was 1750 hours when they presented themselves at General Mannheim's quarters, patiently waiting until he answered their knock. He waited until the outer door was closed before grinning at Hogan. "I see you had a good day, at least."

"It was busy. Very busy," Hogan allowed, then grinned also. "Things improved once we got away from the hospital this morning, and that creep of a doktor." The trademark grin vanished, replaced by a black scowl at that memory. Quickly, Weber explained, describing in detail what he'd seen, heard, and said at the hospital, before Mannheim could demand a report. Soon the General wore a matching expression, and Weber didn't think he'd like to be in that doktor's boots anytime soon.

Then, "What is all this, Hogan?" Mannheim asked. "Did you buy out Berlin single-handed?"

"No, but I tried to," Rob quipped back, hoping to restore Mannheim's good mood before he had to confess his sins. Unfortunately, time was short, so he shrugged and took the plunge, drawing out his now-fat billfold. "Here, General; I have something to turn over to you. I promised Leutnant Weber that I would," he admitted as he passed over a thick wad of Deutschmarks. He carefully did not mention the discreet fold of several hundred marks that he had tucked away earlier, against this time; hopefully, Mannheim would not demand an exact accounting, and he could keep it.

"Where did you get this, Hogan?" Mannheim's voice was flat, a tone that Hogan had never heard before from him. He could feel himself start to sweat.

"That came out of several hidden stashes, from the stuff in impound, mein General. We were there today to retrieve my jackboots, so you wouldn't have that needless expense. We got talking to the sergeant on duty there, and playing with the old uniforms, and, well, I forgot myself. I started looking through the old stuff, and got curious to see if our old escape funds were still there. I took about a third of it. Leutnant Weber didn't find out about it until we were well away from Impound.

"I used those funds to pay for my flight suits and some extra bolts of the black cloth, against future need. I paid for our lunch with it. I bought the luggage and a good chronometer. Most of the rest is there, sir; I've held out 275 marks as mad money for myself.

"It was all obtained by...legitimately illegal methods, sir; none of it is the counterfeit stuff from Impound." He could hear Weber choking in the background, but he kept his attention centered on Mannheim, who, to Hogan's relief, could not seem to prevent one corner of his mouth from twitching.

"Perhaps you had best define 'legitimately illegal,' Hogan," came the dryly delivered demand. "This is a concept that I have never heard before."

"We got some from England; I guess they smuggled it in, or took it from downed flyers. A good bit of it came from the Underground in the early days. We robbed a bank once---you read about that one in my confession; we used it to pay a man for information he had for sale. Most of that was recovered by the authorities, though. A lot of our escape fund came from the poker games that Newkirk used to hold in the barracks. Those were really popular with the camp guards, especially right after payday. None of it was counterfeit, I'll swear to that, General."

"Now tell me why I should not shoot you for this breach of trust," Mannheim said, although even then he knew his anger was gone. This was just the way Hogan was; it would take time to change him - what parts could be changed.

"General, I've had to be as crooked as a three-dollar bill these last two and a half years. I'm trying to be honest with you; I'm doing my best not to lie to you, about anything. It's just, some habits die hard. And it felt so good, having money of my own, not to have you paying all my bills. I never thought myself overly prideful before this; I guess I'm finding out different now." He looked so sincere as he pronounced this, so downcast at having disappointed his patron, but Mannheim sensed that, given similar circumstances, Hogan would do the same thing. It was just his nature.

All he could do was shake his head and sigh. "Here, I believe this is one of your new uniforms, Hogan," he said, indicating the recently arrived garment bag. "Wear that tonight, instead of the British."

"It'll be undress, mein General," Hogan warned, even as he reached for the bag to check the contents. "Will they let me into the mess in that?"

"They will if I say so," Mannheim responded, but paused at the surprised look on his bondsman's face. "What's wrong?" he demanded.

"Nothing's wrong, General," Hogan quickly assured him. "It's not my undress, though; it's one of the sets of blacks…uh, one of my winter flight suits. I was just surprised it's here so quickly; you know how late we were there." He started looking further through the pile of parcels, until he found a likely-looking bundle. As he pulled it from the stack, a sturdy envelope fell from the pile, a sturdy, military-grade, manila envelope, suitable for photographs. Company forgotten, Hogan dived for that, a huge smile lighting his face as he peeked inside. "Oh, yeah!" he chortled, looking over at Mannheim with a truly wicked gleam in his eyes. "Herr General, see how many of these men you recognize." He handed the envelope over and returned to the bulky parcel that should contain…yes, here was the greatcoat, and a complete undress uniform, badges all correctly sewn to the lower left sleeve.

Mannheim took the envelope and shook out the enclosed photographs. He could feel the color drain from his face as he gazed at the top photo. Oh, yes, he recognized this distinguished-looking, stern SS colonel - both from the party where they'd met, and the man under the makeup, now that he knew Hogan so well. He leafed through the rest, understanding now what Hogan had meant by "playing" with his old uniforms in Impound. Each man appeared to be someone different at first glance, and even a second one, but when he studied them more carefully, he could tell that each was still a photograph of Hogan. No wonder he'd never been caught!

Carefully, Mannheim replaced the photos in their envelope, but he set it aside rather than putting it away. He, too, could play games; he wondered how many of the men likely to come to dinner tonight had unwittingly met the young colonel during the war. This should liven the meal up even further, he thought as he suppressed his own chuckle of anticipated delight. Instead, he reached for the rejected garment bag to examine Hogan's idea of appropriate flight-suit design.

He stopped abruptly, his eye caught by the small pedestal clock on his sideboard. No time. "Rob, we will be late!" He snapped his gaze over to his bondsman. "And you still need to shave and change! Go---Use my shaving kit; we must not keep Field Marshall Berrer waiting! Macht Schnell!"

He couldn't help himself; Hogan jerked to attention, clicking his heels and snapping out a crisp, "Jawohl, mein General!" Just like a proper little German, he sneered at himself even as he bolted for Mannheim's private bath, his new uniform clutched in his arms. Ten minutes later, he was out again, clean-shaven and changed, a new record even for him. Thank Heaven they'd brought his boots with them, he mused as he tugged the shiny leather up over his closely clad legs. He stood, then, for the General's inspection, actually feeling that he looked good in his new kit.

Mannheim clearly thought so, too, for he nodded in approval, his eyes warm, but he wasted no more time, shrugging into the greatcoat held for him by Lt. Weber, pulling on his gloves, settling his cap, and grabbing the envelope of photographs as his two men likewise donned coats, caps, and gloves. Together the trio hurried out, Weber holding the door for his general, Hogan at Mannheim's heels. The staff car was waiting just outside the building's entrance, and it was a welcome haven against the chill wind that now blew, whipping a bitter rain that carried the cold straight to one's bones. At least it wasn't snow.

Berlin was not a fun place to be in the winter, Hogan thought as he gazed out the car windows at the passing buildings. She was coming back to life, though, windows lit, now that the need for blackout curtains was over. People hurried down the streets, eager to escape the nasty weather and reach whatever diversion had been planned for the evening. The first flush of victory was long past by now; people were getting their lives back in order, settling into new routines.

The car pulled up outside the officer's club with less than five minutes to spare. This time, Hogan held the door as Mannheim slid from the staff car's spacious back seat; already the doorman was holding open the door into the club for them. They hurried up the steps, eager for their dinner now, and for the warmth and companionship to be found within.

"Guten Abend, Herr General," the club steward greeted them. «You are expected. The Trophy Room has been reserved for your Group tonight,» he told them, surprising Mannheim greatly. One had to have a good bit of influence to hold the Trophy Room for just a dinner group.

"Danke, Klaus," he replied, holding his curiosity in check only by the merest fingertips of control. The three men passed their coats and hats to the check-room orderly, then proceeded within.

«Ah, Sebastian; you are here. Very good,» called an older man, coming forward with outstretched hands in a warm welcome. Hogan remembered him from the trial, but did not know his name. «I see you've not killed him yet; has he made a good Aide, then?»

Several other high-ranking men laughed at this; obviously it had become a well-known joke among their circle. Mannheim colored slightly, but laughed good-naturedly nonetheless. «No; I've not killed him yet, though I was sorely tempted tonight. Still, he's managed to redeem himself, so I will keep him for a while yet. At least he comes back when he's supposed to, which is more than I can say for my last Orderly.» More laughter greeted this statement as Mannheim's small group made their way further into the room.

Hogan tried not to squirm under the curious stares of the gathered Germans. He wished he had his crush-cap. It was an odd thing to use as a security blanket, he reflected, but with that hat cocked at its rakish angle, he could face anything.

Some of them looked at him with more puzzlement, he noted; no doubt he'd met them somewhere.

"Well, Hogan, you look quite civilized in that."

He couldn't help starting, for the voice had come from right behind his left ear. He spun, then had to laugh at his reaction. "Hello again, General Burkhalter. So, you approve?" he asked, spreading his arms out in an attempt at self-mockery.

"As I said, almost civilized," Burkhalter chuckled, in a vast good humor. "I nearly didn't recognize you. How did Sebastian manage to pry that disreputable hat of yours out of your keeping? I saw you coming in tonight without it."

"I still have it, you know," Hogan laughed, for clearly Burkhalter linked that hat with Hogan as closely as he did himself. "He just won't let me wear it for dress-up."

Now Burkhalter laughed openly, something Hogan couldn't remember ever having seen him do before. But the German was turning then, towards the Generaloberst he seemed to be with. «General, this is Hogan. Be careful, or he will steal you blind and make you think it was all your Idea the whole time.

«Hogan, I make you known to GeneraloberstGrafner, Head of the Luftwaffe.»

«Herr General Grafner, a Pleasure,» Hogan responded, clicking his heels and bowing his head respectfully. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mannheim looking around for him, a worried frown on his face which cleared momentarily as he spotted Hogan, then deepened when he saw who he was talking to. «If you would excuse me, meine Herren, I believe General Mannheim has noticed me straying and wishes me where he can keep a closer Eye on me. It's not me he doesn't trust,» he elaborated with a grin, «but my Mouth.» With another polite nod, he was gone, leaving the two Germans laughing uproariously.

They had come to see Hogan, so he gave them a show, behaving at his most polite worst. And they knew it, too; they could easily see through his act, so no tempers got ruffled, no feelings hurt. All through dinner he managed to entertain them with his wit, although there were times he really felt the strain. Surprisingly, it was Burkhalter who came to his rescue then, for he'd had long experience of Hogan and could see clues in his behavior that Mannheim had not yet come to learn. Leutnant Weber watched in awe as Rob swam these deadly waters with seeming ease, not realizing how close to exploding the American came several times.

At last the meal was over, and all had settled into chairs near the large fireplace this room boasted. Hogan managed to remove himself from the limelight somewhat, to give himself a breather, and the officers turned their conversations to "light business" for a while as they enjoyed their after-dinner drinks and cigars. At last, Mannheim deemed the time right for what he'd come to think of as the piece de resistance of the evening.

«Rob, pass these to Field Marshall Berrer and the others, if you would be so kind,» he said, just loudly enough to get everyone's attention. He'd expected perhaps a dozen officers at this gathering; to his shock, many more had come as word had spread. All the better, he now thought, ready to enjoy most thoroughly this bombshell.

Hogan accepted the photos, out of their envelope now, and hid a grin. He'd met most of these men during the war; it would be very interesting to see how they reacted.

«Gentlemen, see if you recognize any of the men in these pictures, please. They were just brought to my attention late this afternoon, so I thought that I would perhaps share them with you tonight.» Mannheim then settled back in his chair, waiting to see who, if any, would draw the connection between the pictures and his bondsman. He watched in anticipation as Hogan handed the photographs over to Berrer first, as instructed, then waited to pass them on to the next closest man. Most, however, weren't willing to wait, but rose to gather around whoever held some of the photos. Exclamations of recognition could be heard from time to time, as well as the occasional muttered name, but, predictably, it was Burkhalter who realized just who was in all those pictures.

«Wait a Minute,» he ordered suddenly. «Let me see those last two Photographs again.» Carefully he compared them, one to the next, then looked up and studied Hogan just as closely, and laughed in delight. «I wish that Hochstetter could see these!» he chortled with evil glee. «He would have a foaming Fit!» He paused and looked around at his companions, chuckling harder. «Do you not all realize what you have there? These are all Pictures of the same Man: Hogan! »

Cries of consternation and denial filled the room, until all had examined the photos once more and could no longer reject the evidence of their eyes. Burkhalter looked consideringly at his former enemy. «You truly are the most dangerous man in Germany, Hogan.»

«Not anymore - at least, not to Germany, General, » Hogan answered softly. «General Mannheim holds my Bond. And all my Men, if my Word isn't enough for you. I've told more Lies in two and a half Years than one Man has a right to tell in a Lifetime, but this isn't one of them.»

«No; I believe you on that,» Burkhalter waved it away. «I was just wondering when these pictures were taken, and where. There seems to be…»

«Oh, sorry.» Hogan paused to collect himself, then grinned his infamous grin. «These were all taken today, General, shortly before we ran into you, in fact. We went to Impound to retrieve my boots…»